


Suture

by stressy_boy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, Gaslighting, Gory Descriptions, descriptions of stitching, hes just sad, just know he's not okay, mental illness?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stressy_boy/pseuds/stressy_boy
Summary: He breathes...





	Suture

It’s suffocating, living in your own skin. It’s hard to be normal when your own flesh feels tight around your very bones, like clingfilm being stretched over a box. Your traumas never leaving, only sticking. Every beat of the fist, every cutting word she ever spoke. It stays.

Every press of the needle, every tug of the catgut suture through his skin can still be felt. Stitched through his lips, sewing him together and nullifying every scream he wanted to make. He shouldn’t make a sound; he can’t make a sound; she threatened to cut his tongue out.

_“It’s all your fault.”_

_“Naughty boys get stitches… “_

_“This is all your fault, you deserve nothing.”_

Soulful brown eyes stare into the murky mirror before him, searching for something but he doesn’t know what. The light flickers above him in irregular patterns; irritating him and making his head feel funny… like that was hard to do. He is the reason for his own demise, he should have kept his mouth shut when she said to.

But she is no longer here.

Pale, skeletal hands with sharp nails with dirt under them pick up the rusting pair of scissors resting on the grime covered sink. His body shakes with trepidation… What he is about to do is go against her wishes, for him to be silent, for him to be a _good boy_. A good son. The dull metal blade slides under the first stitch and he inhales. He stares into his reflection, a pale imitation staring right back at him with fear lacing into his very core- his other hand gripped the ceramic sink. There’s a beat, a flicker of the light, the incessant buzz of the broken bulb and then finally a noise of scissors clamping down and cutting the first suture.

And something snaps. A sharp exhale like someone was hit with a physical blow to the stomach.

_“He’s crazy! To think my own son would murder his father and stitch his own face! He needs help, I’ll help him, give me the medicine.”_

_“Keep him pinned, he needs to be sedated. Stitch his mouth back up, before he bites someone else’s finger off.”_

Another stitch is cut.

_“If only you were good. If only you stopped telling lies… you wouldn’t be strapped to this bed.”_

_“Don’t look at me with mirth, I’m trying to help you.”_

And help she did.

A scream, so visceral; like a volcano finally erupting after so many years, tore from his throat. It scratched and clawed its way out violently from the depths of his stomach, through his chest and out his mouth. Scissors still clutched tightly in his hands, but the movement of his mouth caused the remaining bounds to rip and tear through his skin. Viscous red blood rolled down his chin and neck, staining pale skin like paint on a canvas. Metal scraped across the floor in a flurry, scissors abandoned on the dirt covered tiles, discarded and unneeded.

_“No… No… Wait!”_

_“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”_

In a sharp motion, he slammed his head against the mirror. His skin splitting to recreate the shattered glass. Another guttural scream makes its way into the air, cutting and biting his throat. Years and years of build up has come to this, the weight finally caving his chest. His vision blurred red, quite literally. His head lifted and slammed right back against the very same spot. Shards slicing into his skin like a knife through butter.

_He remembers how it felt to stitch her lips._

_He remembers how her neck felt under his hands._

_He remembers the sound of her dying breaths._

_He remembers the sounds of bones grinding and popping._

_He remembers the look on her face as rigor mortis settled._

_He remembers._

Again. Again. Again. His head pounds against the broken glass, with one final smack. His ears ring and he falls back against the floor, staring up at the light. His face, bloodied. He was comparable to a corpse, pale skin, skeletal features, sunken eyes. There was nothing alive about him.

He breathes. 

**Author's Note:**

> please leave feedback! i really appreciate it


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